From the Ashes
by Cymatile
Summary: Somehow, we learn to rebuild our lives. From the ashes we survive, we propser.


I haven't forgotten about this, just been extremely busy, suffering from writers block. This has been completely re-edited for your reading pleasure. Enjoy~

PS- I don't own House... Oh wait- yeah, still don't.

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**Chapter 1**

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I hated you at first, did you know that?

Here you were, beautiful and radiant,

And it was not because I was jealous.

I hated you because you reminded

Me of what had been stolen from myself.

Even now I still don't understand you.

But your eyes, those damn eyes of yours, I swear

They see right through me.

* * *

Hospitals always looked the same. Different locations, floor layouts and staff members, sure, but in the context of scent and feel they all were similar. They all followed a nearly identical schema.

The heavy scent of disinfectant, weakly attempted to be masked by less awful scents, assaulted her nose. There was hardly anyone on the ground floor, but after all it was nearing 2 a.m. She strode through the nearly deserted lobby to the elevators and pressed the upward arrow, running a hand through her hair as she waited.

Almost too loudly and soon, the doors to the elevator opened onto her designated floor. Ghosting over to the nurse's station nearest the room number she had been given, she briefly spoke to one of the nurses. Steeling herself, she continued her way down the hall to the given room number. Stopping outside the doorway, she watched the figure that was sleeping in the small hospital bed. She swallowed her trepidation and walked into the darkened room, quietly pulling up a chair beside the bed, and lightly sat down.

She swallowed thickly, disliking the hot feeling her throat had acquired since entering the hospital. In the hallway, several nurses rushed down the hall towards the sound of a faint beeping coming from another room. Envy and wariness crept into her before she let the ambient sounds of the room sooth her, and she refocused her attention on the woman before the urge to bolt from the room overwhelmed her.

The woman lay curled up on her side facing her, knees drawn up to her chest with one of her arms locked between her legs and the other tucked under her head. What little skin of her face that was not obscured by tousled strands of blonde hair was shadowed with bruises, and the pleated mark of stitches was not hard to notice above her right eyebrow. And her face, although still gorgeous, was contorted slightly in what she assumed was pain.

Part of her couldn't believe she was here; she never would have thought she would be the one sitting at her bedside. Receiving a phone call at 1:00 a.m was a prelude to the real surprises- and it was hard to distinguish which was more so- the fact she was on this girl's emergency contact list or that the woman was in the hospital to begin with.

It must be a mistake.

Of all people why was she on her contact list? Because if the girl had a choice about who to call, she reasoned it probably wouldn't be her. Especially since their previous encounter with each other.

They weren't friends.

That was made explicitly clear.

When the girl woke up, they would probably have an awkward yet mercifully brief conversation ending with her leaving to return to her own life and trying to forget this night ever happened.

Why had she shown up? Why didn't she even attempt to hand her off to someone else?

Immediately feeling guilty and even more frustrated with herself, she ran a hand through her hair, trying to convince herself curiosity led her here. Soon she would hopefully get answers. For now, she was playing a waiting game.

She looked at the woman's bruised face and too-thin body again, feeling a pang of sympathy tug at her heart. Friends or not, she didn't want to see someone she once knew in this condition.

Twisting in vain in attempt to get comfortable in the chair did nothing for her aching back; these were hospital chairs after all, "comfortable" was not on their list of fitting adjectives. She winced as a spring poked her back. Sighing, she reached forward and hesitantly brushed some strands of blonde hair out of her counterpart's face. Sitting back, she looked out the window at the night sky, bleached in spots due to the numerous street lights. She occupied herself by looking outside as the minutes and her thoughts ticked away.

"Thirteen...?" came two breathy and hoarse syllables several minutes later.

Her head snapped up at the sound of her nick-name to meet the girl's eyes. She found her voice caught in her throat and unable to say anything as she looked into the woman's tired, bluish-green, eyes. The pain, hardly concealed in those eyes, arrested her voice, and she had the near-overwhelming desire to make some sort of comforting gesture. But reminding herself of the situation, she kept her face neutral; the circumstances and woman's thoughts regarding Thirteen were still unclear. For all she knew, the woman could still hate her and not want her here.

Her pale hand came up and drowsily yet carefully rubbed her eye, cringing slightly as she bumped her stitches.

"Yea, it's me," she murmured back after a few strained heartbeats.

Her hand froze in the midst of timidly tracing the score of stitches above her eyebrow. The woman's eyes were suddenly more alert and focused on Thirteen as drowsiness was overwritten with suspicion. Silence stretched out between them as they studied each other. Thirteen tried not to feel self-conscious under the guarded greenish eyes as they raked over her.

"It's been a while, Thirteen." Her hospital gown shifted slightly as she sat up with immense effort. She drew her pale arms into her lap and the blankets rustled as she sat cross-legged below their cover.

"Yea..." Thirteen looked down at her lap and clenched and unclenched her hands before looking back up at her. "To be honest, I'm surprised I'm here," she admitted in a neutral voice as she rested her forearms on her thighs and leaned forward. She laced and unlaced her fingers together before looking back up at Allison Cameron.

Cameron dropped her gaze.

I was right, she thought, surmising it was a guilty look. Here comes the part where she wants you to leave. This was all a mistake. You hadn't meant to be the one to receive the phone call. Now the only satisfaction she could receive would be to hear her actually say it.

"Why are you here?" Her tone was stripped of all emotion except for a sliver of suspicion, her face composed of apathy and open distrust.

"I think that's my line," Thirteen deflected carefully in a soft tone. In actuality she wasn't sure what to do or say, only fumbling around in the dark, and she was suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of intrusion as the reality of the situation caught up with her brain.

What was she doing here?

She had no right to this spot at her bedside and Cameron certainly didn't seem welcoming, despite her apparent request to come here.

"I'm sorry, but you can go home," her thoughts echoed in Cameron's voice as her eyes roved Thirteen's sleep pants and loose t-shirt beneath her jacket, seeming to conclude Thirteen must have just dragged herself out of bed to be here.

Thirteen ignored the comment and continued. "Can you at least tell me what's going on so I know it's okay to leave you?" As uncomfortable as she was, she wasn't cruel or naive enough to just up and leave her in this state.

Silence. Cameron's eyes remained stubbornly looking past Thirteen's shoulder and out the window.

"Is there anyone you'd like me to call?" Cameron remained still. "Dr. Cameron..." her voice trailed off as her uncertainty intensified for every heartbeat of silence. If Cameron were simply a patient this would be so much easier. But they were ex-coworkers who, last time she checked, weren't on the best of terms.

Cameron pulled her knees to her chest and rested her forehead on them in response. She looked exhausted, and Thirteen was reminded of just how fragile she was. "I read your chart-"

"That's _personal_," she chided, but it sounded even more tired than she looked.

"And me being here isn't?" The words slipped out before she could stop them and she forced her lungs to take a calming breath. Admittedly her interest and concern increased with every non-response she got from Cameron. The same could not be said of her patience.

"Where am I?" came her muffled voice from below her arms.

"New Jersey." She had understood that Cameron was briefly conscious when she was admitted to the hospital and had suffered no amnesia. Why bother to ask then? Her brow furrowed in thought.

"Does anyone else know you're here?"

Thirteen assumed she meant people they mutually knew. "Just the doctors and nurses who've seen me," she answered quietly, getting the feeling that something was not right. An unsettling knot settled in the pit of her stomach.

Cameron lifted her head, tears staining her cheeks, and rested it sideways on her arms, looking mournfully at Thirteen. Her stomach lurched at the sight. Automatically Thirteen reached out and brushed their marks away, shocked even more when Cameron leaned into her touch and let out a soft sob. Her face contorted and Thirteen shifted closer to the bed, using her other hand to gently stroke Cameron's arm. "I'm sorry, it wasn't... I just... Everything is not..." her breaths became short and shallow. "I've screwed up so much, Thirteen," her voice cracked and her eyes looked dazed. "...One I could think of."

Guilt and sympathy lanced through Thirteen.

Then Cameron fainted.

It took her a whole 15 minutes to convince the nurses that she was a _doctor _before they let her back in the room with Cameron. Seeing her so... _broken _left Thirteen with an unexplained determination to defend Cameron from, well, whatever was bothering her to make her miserable.

She looked into the hallway where a nurse was indiscreetly glaring at her as if she had been subjecting Cameron to a Guantanamo Bay style interrogation to make her pass out. Cameron twitched in her sleep and gripped Thirteen's hand tighter. She absentmindedly ran her thumb over Cameron's in a soothing manner, her chart balanced precariously in her lap as she rested her head in her other hand, mind working to put together the pieces of Cameron's puzzle. Now it was a little after 4 a.m., and exhausted she carefully replaced the chart and returned to her chair, slouching her upper body on the bed.

"Thirteen?" Cameron mumbled.

"Yeah?" she responded, slightly more awake, but she realized Cameron was only asleep as her hand moved until it was brushing against her own.

A fractured wrist, 3 stitches above her eyebrow, several other minor lacerations and bruises, and 26 stitches along the left side of her abdomen, all the result of a gruesome automotive accident. No ID, wallet, or cell phone. The only thing she really had was a crumpled, soaked piece of paper scrawled with warped bleeding blue ink that held characters similarly shaped to her cell phone number.

Her eyes slid closed. The image of Cameron's pained, too-thin face as she cried flashed behind Thirteen's eyelids as she fell asleep.


End file.
